All Good Things
by secretlife1201
Summary: Edward and I were in love, the real, true kind that leaves you breathless and gasping for more. I loved him in a way that electrified my bones, pulsing with shocks that started my heart so that it felt dead before knowing him. I loved him more than I'd ever loved anything, but it wasn't enough to keep us from falling apart. Love is never enough to keep a heart from breaking.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 _The incandescence of the vast moon was endless, shining down onto the drivers-side window when I threw open the door so that even though the reflection was smudged and unclear, I was still noticeably fuming. Despite being only a glimpse, I knew what I must look like. Disheveled hair, wild eyes, red, blotchy skin—an unalterable mess. In that second, though, my anger was a thick fog settling over my judgement and I couldn't even care. And for once, I didn't want to. The last few months had been building up to this moment. I had felt it in the air, in the comments said and, more importantly, the ones not said. This was the storm we had both been unconsciously waiting for. The preceding calm had been palpable._

 _I only realized how cold it was when I forced the key into the ignition and read the blinking light: 18 degrees Fahrenheit. What surprised me wasn't the frigidly low temperature, it was early January after all, and in a part of the country that averages mid 70's in July nonetheless. What took me back was how I hadn't feel it on my way out, how I hadn't instantly recoiled from the bite of the frosty wind as it nipped at my overly exposed body, bare in comparison to what my forgotten coat would have covered. I had been so sensitive to the cold this entire unforgiving winter, but then again, I had just been in the heat of an argument. My skin still stung in recollection. I put my forehead down on the steering wheel, taking a deep breath so I would have time to let my racing heart calm down._

Okay. _I said to myself._ It's okay. _That was a lie._ It's going to be okay. _That probably was too._

 _White puffs of ice had begun covering my windshield when I looked back up, my shoulders leaving the uncomfortably hunched position they had previously been in. I flicked my headlights on, starting the windshield wipers. As they awoke with a start, clearing away the snow, I was able to see a figure standing on the porch of the house. His hands were in the front pockets of his jeans, a hand running through the tangled mess atop his head. I made eye contact with him, his eyes wide and alert and staring with the same intensity they always did. Those eyes whispered promises and secrets, echoes of the past I no longer wanted to remember. They said_ I've seen your soul and I've read your thoughts. I know you better than you know yourself.

 _He called my name. His hands were cupped so that his shouted words reached me through the surrounding darkness. "Bella, come back! Don't be ridiculous!"_

Don't be ridiculous. _Images of the past conversation rushed like a poorly constructed slideshow throughout my head, his last fraise running like cold water down my spine. Any composure I was just able to collect immediately disappeared, replaced by unadulterated fury._ Don't be ridiculous.

 _The seat belt made an audible click. I threw the vehicle into reverse and backed out of the long driveway as quickly as I could. From my marginal vision I saw him dart from the front steps, ready to chase me. Although muffled, I heard him continue to shout. My foot beat down hard on the accelerator, my right hand turning a knob so that the sound of the blasting hot air would tune out his already fading voice. I had yet to feel a chill._

 _My massive truck weaved through the streets, thrusting me deeper into the whiteout. The head lights shot beams of light ahead, distinguishing the individual snowflakes. They fell diagonally across the road, carried that way by the audibly howling wind outside. I heard my cellphone start to ring; I didn't answer._

 _I passed a familiar sign, one for the town park. Greene's Park. I could faintly make out the outline of the jungle gym, the swing set, the monkey bars. There was once a merry-go-round we would spin on until we got sick, its wheels underneath in great need of some oil. I could still hear the incessant squeaking in the background as we would beg Emmett to spin us again—one more time! One more time! He was strong even then._

 _It didn't matter, though. Not really. That merry-go-round was a only a memory, since a few years back it was taken down after some elementary kid my mom taught fell off. Nothing serious, just a sprained wrist and some bruises. But his parents of course had a fit and got the city-council to authorize its removal from the park._

Ring, ring, ring! _My cell phone went off again, and even though I was furious, I answered it._

" _Damn it, stop calling me! Obviously I don't want to talk to you."_

 _His voice cracked into the speaker. "Oh, thank god." He muttered under his breath. "Bella, listen to me, you have to come back. I'm sorry—god I'm so sorry. The news is calling for a blizzard. There's ice everywhere. It isn't safe—"_

 _I was about to reply, to tell him to leave me alone and snap that I was almost home anymore. But suddenly my phone wasn't in my hand anymore, it was on the ground. I could barely hear his frantic squeaks from the floor. And there was a blinding light ahead, clouding my view and leaving dots of color to clutter my line of vision. My body was falling forward, suspended by the seat belt. My eyes were closed, but then they weren't, and I opened them just in time to witness the road ahead fall away from view. From grasp. Blood pulsed through my ears, someone was screaming. I was the one screaming._

 _My hands attacked the wheel, turning it aimlessly so that it would make some kind of movement that was within my control. There was no point, I knew it, but yet I couldn't stop. Through the window, behind the rapid flurry, I could see the moon rising away, the ancient_ Wickery Bridge _sign, nothing. I was airborne. The clock read 11:17 when I finally splashed into the icy waters below. I seemed to go headfirst, judging by the way I stayed held by the seat belt. It hurt, digging into my collar bone. I knew it would bruise._

 _In one final action, the truck landed in such a fashion I could almost feel my brain shake inside my skull. My back slammed into the seat as water began to spill in on all sides' only seconds later. Trying to break free from my restraints, I beat against the window. Instead of letting me out, it only let more water in. "Help!" I tried to scream, but instead of the air I needed, only water entered my lungs. Burning like an inferno. "Edward!"_

 _Weakly, I fell back into the seat, a thick fog of confusion cloaking itself over me. The water was so cold my whole body felt paralyzed. I could see blurs of my dark hair float out in front of me, but nothing further. Screaming from underwater, bubbles flew from my mouth. "HELP!" I tried, screeching obscured things that would never resurface. "HELP!" I scratched against my seat belt, using all my strength to free myself. I was trapped._

 _A feeling of heat seeped into my head. I felt hotter than before, weighed down by the fire._ _Nobody will hear me. That much I_ _was able to understand. But instead of the thoughts being urgent like they should have been, they started to come calmly. It wasn't a last cry for help, it wasn't even a motivator to get free. It was a realization I unexpectedly had no intention of fighting. A sense of peace drifted over me. I couldn't even remember who I had previously been arguing with, let alone what it was about. It was so far away now, meaningless; things have a way of losing importance with distance. As if I had just finished a marathon, I was exhausted. Giving up against my yelps, I sunk into my seat, waiting for sleep to take me._

 _I was ready for it to all end when I felt something. A tugging sensation, like when a pesky child is pulling your arm in the morning, but you don't want to wake up just yet. I vaguely felt hands pushing against my chest. Up and down, up and down. They were murmuring quietly but incessantly, fear and pain in their voice. It was annoying._ Just let me go _, I wanted to say, but something seemed to get stuck in my throat, and I coughed it out. I couldn't stop coughing. It hurt._ Just let it end.

 _My eyes flickered and all I saw was green. A brilliant emerald green._

 _And then everything went dark—but not before I had an instant thought of the merry-go-round again. I loved it, I did, but then it was gone, and I never even thought about it long enough to miss its absence. And it's because things don't matter after their no longer around. Importance isn't just lost with distance. It tends to disappear. Even the best things have a way of blurring; the shiniest rocks eventually become dull. Everyone knows that all good things must eventually come to end._

 _I just wished I had figured that out sooner._

* * *

A/N

Hi guys! I know Twilight is super old now, but something about the fanfictions still manage to intrigue me. An idea for a story just popped into my head the other day, so I thought I'd write out a quick prologue and just see where it went…it will be ALL HUMAN with CANON PAIRINGS.

I really wasn't sure what to rate this story, so I went with T because it's probably closer to being rated as PG-13 than as R. That said, there will be some mature themes in the future with only occasional cursing and/or violence. The romance and sex will be implied, but not too heavily described. I'm sure you'll be fine, just remember to view at your own discretion.

Also, I'm only going to say this once.

 **DISCLAIMER:** I obviously don't own Twilight. All characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. What they do in this story, however, completely belongs to me.

Please enjoy and review :) Interest brings updates!


	2. Chapter 1

_A/N_

 _If you have already read this before, scroll to the very bottom for directions._

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

"Pay attention to everything that is about to come, even the things that don't make sense to you now. It will all eventually lead to something you will understand."

-Anonymous

* * *

 _ **NOW**_

I wake in a cold sweat, my back covered in a thin sheet of moisture, my pajama shirt damp with the perspiration. For a moment I stay perfectly still, gazing at the stark ceiling above. I don't have to turn onto my side and check the clock to know it isn't yet seven o'clock. What clues me in first, however, isn't the lack of uproar usually coming from my radio as Jess and Mike of Y105 bicker over relationships, gender labels, or sex. It's the shadows that dance overhead, streaming in through the sheer curtains of my windows. The room is still dark, darker than it should be even now, well into the winter.

I blink once, slowly, giving my heart a chance to stop racing. Images of my previous reverie flash behind my closed eyelids, recapturing the events in black and white and without noise, as I've been instructed to do. It helps, but only slightly. Nothing's as scary as it originally was once the color and sound are gone—it coincidentally also loses its certainty. This trick is something my therapist has instructed me to do to turn my dreams into what they should be; nightmares, unreal and imaginary.

The prescribed medication also works wonders in this department.

My hand rests briefly over my chest, feeling the commotion slowdown from beneath my fingertips. I then proceed to brush the hair from my face, wiping away the sweat and rising slowly from the mattress. Once I have sat up, I slide my legs out from the sheets and let them hang from the bed, dangling about three inches from the rug. The time is 6:37. I was right.

 _Tip, tip, tip, tap. Tip, tip, tip, tap._ The rap of my bare feet against the freezing cold ground as I walk to the bathroom resounds off of the hardwood in a pattern, echoing distinctly between my ears. I still hear the resonation over the hush of the water five minutes later once I am in the shower, I still manage to see the haze of green amongst the billowing steam. The towel is white and soft against my body. I walk deliberately to the mirror, bringing my hand up to wipe away the condensation. The reflection shining back at me is surprisingly decent. My eyes are wide, pronounced enough to be almost pretty and awake enough not to appear unresponsive during the day to come. My hair is long again, a thick waterfall of chestnut brown down my back. The past few years have been good to me. I've gradually been able to gain some weight back and become more in tune with my surroundings.

My therapist believes I've made excellent progress.

Because I woke up nearly half an hour before the alarm usually goes off, I have time to blow dry my hair and apply more makeup than just the typical mascara. I pick out a black highwaisted skirt, a deep plum turtle neck, and a pair of leather boots my mother gave me for Christmas. I slide a headband against my part and hardly recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror afterwards. Brushing my teeth, I smooth down a flyaway strand of hair and finish my morning routine by swallowing a handful of pills.

By the time I have stepped out from the bathroom it is 7:40 and the sun is just starting to rise this January morning. The coffee maker downstairs in the kitchen, set to start brewing at half past seven, is waiting for me. I pour myself a cup in a mug I've had since high school, also given to me as a gift. With cream and sugar, the coffee slides down my throat smoothly, leaving a trail of heat across my esophagus and warming me to the core. I walk to the large floor to ceiling windows across from the breakfast island, mug pressed tightly between my palms, to look out at the dark descending trees, the distant blue water, the startlingly beautiful sunrise.

My eyes permanently trained aloft, I watch the large glowing sphere rise slowly into the dull dawn sky, its rays casting sunbeams in every direction, illuminating the lake below. Waiting a minute to explode, colors inexplicably paint themselves across the atmosphere as the sun finally makes its arrival, a vivid collection of pinks, reds, and purples all melting together to form a sunrise so distracting; I almost forget that despite my initial lead, I am now running late.

"Oh, crap," I mutter to myself, reluctantly turning away from the window and downing the rest of the coffee before leaving it in the sink. I rush to the pantry to grab a bagel. My coat is on the hook by the door, where I left it yesterday, beside my purse. I slide my arms into the sleeves, letting the interior silk run easily up my sweater, not bothering to button it closed. The purse goes onto my forearm, the keys get snatched from the glass dish beneath the hooks, and my cellphone buzzes in acknowledgement to no longer being on the charger. I take one last look at the large first floor, the expansive windows, and the lightening sky outside of them. It is clean, nothing has been left plugged in or turned on, and the back door is locked. I nod to myself, flick the light switch down, and step out of the house into the first glimmers of sunshine.

 _Today is going to be a good day,_ I force into my thoughts, my daily mantra—also recommended by the therapist. _And even if it isn't, it certainly won't be your worst._

The drive to work is quiet and uneventful. My car glides smoothly down the street, the surrounding trees forming thin walls, the small vehicle's sound a soft whisper compared to the rusted scrap metal on wheels I once drove in high school. This is a description I use with great affection. In all honesty, I loved my old truck, with its tobacco smelling leather and its roaring engine. I've always been clumsy, so when my father gave me a tank engine for my sixteenth birthday, I was far from disappointed. The truck, new sometime in the 1950's, ultimately proved to be a symbol of my youth; I can't help but always picture my teenage years when I think about it.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel, and I concisely shut my eyes. _Stop._ I can feel my heart beginning to pick up, my lungs contracting. _You're going to hyperventilate if you don't stop thinking about it._ I shake my head, fluttering each eyelid, allowing myself to be okay. My anxiety disappears and I put all attention to the road ahead.

The truck has been gone for seven years now, and it still hurts.

I turn the radio on, and sure enough, the sound of Jess's candor fills my entire car, forcing me to forget my former train of thought. I try to smile, but it feels tight, so I turn the volume up.

" _So you're saying that you don't believe in destiny? Or true love? Or that everyone has a person out there, waiting for them?"_ Jess angrily asks, a certain bite to her tone.

Mike chuckles. _"No, I'm saying that there isn't some nameless, faceless, person out there controlling your love life. If I pick up some drunk blonde from the bar and bring her home, it wasn't something predetermined by god or the universe. If I ask out a soccer mom at the grocery store in the produce section, it wasn't fate. It was two human beings meeting, socializing, and probably having sex afterwards. That was never something set in stone or meant to occur, I'm the one who made it happen. Or in the blonde's case, it was the tequila."_

" _Charming, Mike. Really. Thank you for that itinerary of your typical weekend, but that's not even what I was asking. The drunk blonde isn't the person you take home to your parents, or marry, or have babies with. She's not the one you're going to grow old beside. You weren't destined to meet her, but you are meant so find_ someone. _We all are. I genuinely believe everyone has a person. We just haven't all met them yet."_

" _I'll remember that next Saturday night."_ He says sarcastically, his voice playful and light. " _To our viewers, we'd love to hear your thoughts. You can reach us at Y105's number by either calling or texting in. And if anyone out there is Jessica Stanley's 'person,' I'd especially like to hear from you. It might just be your lucky day; she coincidently ran out of batteries this morning."_

I can almost hear the inaudible eye roll that comes from Jess in the next second. _"Oh, shut up."_ There is a ruffle on the other side of the microphone, probably as she leaned across the studio to slap him. " _Seriously, though, if you are listening to this, I'd love to hear from you too."_

They both laugh. " _We'll hear what you guys have to say after the break. Now, coming at you is the new hit single, 'What if I'm the Bad Guy?' by Seattle's own_ Breaking Dawn _—"_

My hand instantly shoots out to the control panel so that I can turn the radio off. The first couple cords play until my action abruptly cuts them off, being replaced by heavy, deafening stillness. For a moment blood pounds to my head. I ignore it, though, and bring the car to stop at a red light. The silence that follows is haunting.

For the rest of the ten minutes in the car I decide not to listen to anything, instead choosing to pay extra attention to the immediate scenery. The trees are bare, nothing but tall branches and naked bark sticking awkwardly out of the frozen ground covered by numerous feet of snow. The sky above is now gray and murky, the earlier artwork of the universe completely absent. It is a perfect representation of what a Washington winter is: empty and otherwise void of any excitement.

I used to hate the cold and never ending rain living in the Olympic Peninsula ensured, however its reliability is now something I have grown to find comforting. Knowing that the sun will always rise in the morning and fall in the evening, that Jess and Mike will always fill the 6 to 10 time slot of the 101.2 radio station, that I will never be able to leave the house between September and May without a raincoat—it's something that makes me feel secure and in control of things.

I hate surprises, not for the way they leave me unprepared, but for what past experience has shown me. Being astonished allows for your guard to fall, allows you feel things you weren't expecting and probably never had the desire to. But then you have this new, unanticipated thing, and you learn to live with it—you learn to craft your life around it, to become used to it as a normal occurrence. You learn to love this surprise. Unforeseen elements have a way of taking your breath away and never giving it back.

I prefer to stay away from such demons since anything that has ever amazed me has eventually found a way to also break my heart. Hence my control issues. The therapist says it's how I cope.

The dusky skyline of the city comes into my peripheral and I breathe a sigh of relief at the familiar sight of the tall buildings and Space Needle, Mount Rainier a ghost in the background from behind the clouds. I park the car and briskly walk to the station the letter B ferry departs from at 8:03. Checking my cellphone, I have made it by just two minutes.

It has to be less than thirty degrees outside, and yet I choose to sit on the upper deck of the ferry. I always do. If it's winter, I wear a jacket; if it's raining, I bring an umbrella. The gentle _shhh_ of the waves as the boat slices into the water, spraying mist and leaving a trail of ripples behind us, calm me down. I enjoy sitting up here each morning, looking out at the never ending Pacific Ocean and lively metropolitan. It's relaxing…it's another thing I can count on being part of my daily schedule.

The general population doesn't tend to agree with my unconditional seat on the roof, especially during this time of year, so the second level of the ferry is almost completely vacant, other than myself of course and an older gentleman named Max—but Max is always here.

He must be somewhere in his late sixties, and judging by his daily ensemble of a beat-up trench coat and a hat stitched with the old Seahawks logo, he is terminally homeless. Even in the summer months, when the morning's average in the upper fifties and it is comfortable enough to sit up here for the ten minute ride, people tend to stay away from him. Maybe it's the way his right knee always bobs against the deck floor, an action seemingly done involuntarily, or the way his withered skin droops on one side of his face, or the way he mumbles and slurs his words, often to himself, that repels people. Maybe it's the fear that being a black sheep is contagious with curtesy. Or maybe it's just because most of the people on here don't generally care about the lives outside of their own.

Whatever it is, it has made Max the crazy old man who sits alone on the upper deck. I liked him almost immediately.

I've been riding this ferry for a good two years now, and over that time, I've learned that he was once a swimmer. One "good e'nuff ta be in the Olympics," he claims, although I'm not sure if that's true, not that it even matters. He shattered his patella during a swim meet by cracking it against the pool wall, and the surgery ended up leaving nerve damage, which is the reason his knee has constant spasms. He was married and has three children, two boys and a girl. Something he prides himself on is that each of them went to college and received education's his family was too poor to afford in his day. Fifteen years ago he was in a car accident, one that killed his wife instantly on impact and caused the blood vessels in his brain to burst. His children haven't spoken to him since, and he's really talking to what he believes is the spirit of his wife when everyone else thinks it's only directed towards himself. He was drunk at the time of the collision. I don't think he's stopped drinking since.

Max rides the ferry back and forth across the water all day, gazing into the abyss just as I do. The only difference is he does it to remember his former life, to recall "the good ol' days." He sees the water as a beautiful thing he once loved. I look at it to forget, to keep an eye on a thing that terrifies me.

I sit in the row of benches across from his own and sit down, reaching into my bag for the plain bagel I put their earlier. I hand it to him, and he accepts it with a toothy grin and the regular "Thank you, Miss Bella." The bread will soak up the alcohol sloshing around in his stomach. I also have a sneaking suspicion it's the only food he will eat until midnight, when the ferry personnel offer him the left over hotdogs from the concession stand below.

"How are you doing today, Max?" I ask, the same thing I do every morning, eyeing the paper bag beside him holding the open liquor bottle. Where he gets the money for it I'll never know.

"Oh, I'm doin' fine. The winds blowin' west—you know what that means." He muses, his eyes rising up to look at the sky.

Said wind whips hair into my face and my fingers automatically comb it away, bringing it in bulk to a loose bun at the base of my neck. The freezing temperature has barely any effect on me anymore. His belief that different patterns of the weather are omens is nothing new, and despite his predictions never seeming to come true, I shake my head and say "I'm sorry, I must have forgotten" as if I really do consider him a psychic.

"It means a storms brewin'."

For some reason his groundless words send goosebumps onto my arms. I wrap my coat tighter around my waist and try my best to ignore them. "I guess I'll have to check the weather channel tonight, then. I wouldn't want to get caught in a blizzard." I only say this to humor him. His proclamation basically guarantees the chance of at upcoming snow storm to be less than likely, but then again, we live in one the rainiest parts of the country. Guessing precipitation of any kind doesn't give you supernatural powers.

"It's not that kinda storm, Miss Bella." He gives me a strange, steady look that makes me feel as if I'm seven years old and don't understand the general concept of anything. I don't like it. "Although I will agree that the preceding calm has been palpable."

I freeze in my spot. I know those words in the way one remembers the hazy elements of a very old memory.I've _thought_ those words.

The tenor of his deep voice drastically changed in the last part, and it makes me wonder how full that bottle of his actually is. What big, unslurred, rightly pronunciated words those were for a drunk to be able to manage. A shiver runs through me and I am thankful to see the ferry has reached the dock. The loud speaker clicks on, telling the passengers it is time for them to safely make their way off of the boat.

I jump up a little to eagerly, gathering my things. "Well alrighty…" My unexpected nervousness makes me the one to now be saying uneducated variations of the English language. "That's my cue. I'll see you tomorrow…"

I proceed to hurry down the deck stairs, but not before hearing the sound of his throaty cackle, the laugh of a man who has lost his mind. "Goodbye, Miss Bella," He calls after me. "Doin' forget ta check on that weather o' yours!"

The ferry is already pulling away from the dock—right on schedule to be back for the 8:23 ride—by the time I reach the ramp, however I swear I can still hear Max's mad voice. His chuckles continue to echo on repeat throughout my head while I walk away, putting more and more distance between the two of us. I shake my head as if the motion will somehow expel my thoughts. _There's a storm brewing; the preceding calm has been palpable._

I try rationalizing to myself that he is an old drunk who suffered a major stroke more than a decade ago, and perhaps there is a reason everyone thinks he is crazy. He doesn't know what he's talking about. There's no storm, there hasn't been any palpable serenity.

My skin is crawling with his insanity, and he's the one who's crazy.

Right.

* * *

 **REVIEWS ARE LOVE**!

* * *

 _A/N_

 _I promise that this will pick up._

 _I now that this first chapter was written in a very (painfully) descriptive way and almost to the point where it is just paragraph after paragraph of things that don't really seem to matter. But as the quote at the beginning said, pay attention because it all really does hold significance. You need to see how robotically and void of emotion Bella lives her life. You also have to understand that she isn't completely heartless, however, and feels sympathy for Max (the crazy old man from the ferry)._

 _I urge you to continue!_

 _For those who are just stumbling upon this story now, thank you! You can proceed as you normally would._

 _For those who read the prologue, chapter 1, and chapter 2 months ago and are wondering what the hell is going on—here is your answer. I have been very busy lately and haven't had time to update. I really am sorry. When I went to read over everything so that I knew where to start writing again, I realized how long it took to read everything and how unnatural the jump from Bella getting off the boat to going to the flower shop felt. For that reason I simply split them up it two separate chapters, which I feel makes them flow better._

 _The second half of this is now chapter 3. Chapter 2 is the past, and the story will continue in that way with the present being odd chapters and the past being even until the past finally catches up._

 _You will notice I split chapter 2 in two parts as well, and for that reason, you can find completely new writing half way through chapter 4._

 _I'm sorry for any inconvenience!_

 _One last thing, I really don't want it to come off that I am a writer who only does it for reviews, because I am not. I do not care about the number or anything like that. I do, however, like to hear what everyone is thinking and that I'm not submitting thousands of words into a big black hole. If you have time, it would be really great to see what you have to say._

 _When I get comments and PM's it really does make my day!_

 _That said, happy reading!_


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age. The child is grown, and puts away childish things. Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies."

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

 _ **THEN**_

 **1980 (September)**

The swing made a definite, resounding squeal as she swung slowly on its withered seat, the sound ringing menacingly throughout her head. Her old, worn out sneakers just barely touched the ground, the soles faintly scraping the mulch every time she oscillated forward. With the hood of her windbreaker pulled over her head, she slowly raised her head up, keeping a steady eye on the movement of the clouds. It didn't matter what her father had said that morning, or what the teacher had additionally summarized in response to the weather channels forecast.

It was going to rain. She knew it.

The other children of Mrs. Lee's fifth grade class played harmoniously on the playground ahead of her. She watched boys chase after their friends in the open field, girls play hop-scotch on the pavement. The more nimble ones hung easily off of the monkey-bars; the athletes were over at the basketball court playing a pick-up game.

From across the community park, she couldn't help but glare at Karen Wells and her posse of friends who had taken up residence in the bubble at the top of the slide. She caught sight of a flash of yellow as Karen threw her hair over her shoulder, whispering something into the ears of her two closest followers, June Richardson and Julia Hammond. Hatred for that mean group of girls boiled inside of her stomach, her eyes turning to slits, while her grip on the chains of the swing instantaneously tightened. That was _her_ bubble. That was where she read her books during recess so she wouldn't have to socialize with the other children.

"Is it okay if I swing with you?"

She immediately rose her head to see the new girl standing awkwardly in front of her, her wildly frizzy brown hair pulled loosely into two low pig tails. Her eyes were nervously flitting all around in search for a place to belong.

The first girl usually didn't spend a lot of time with the other children from school, the reason being a mix between simply not wanting to and being something of an outcast amongst the pupils of her class. Despite these two contributing factors, however, something about the clearly lonely girl before her pulled at her heart strings.

"I guess so." She answered simply.

"Thanks," The second girl appreciatively took her spot on the swing next to her. There was a moment of silence before she looked over at her swing buddy. "I'm new here."

The first girl remembered how the teacher had introduced her to everyone earlier that morning, but didn't say anything of it. "Where are you from?"

"Phoenix. That's in Arizona."

Now intrigued by what the new girl had to say, she turned her swing in her direction. "Isn't it really sunny there?"

"Yeah," Her voice became almost sad. "It only rains three or four times a year."

"Wow, it's rained more than that just this week." She scrutinized her, looking closely at the girls pale skin and abundant freckles. "For a place that doesn't rain much you don't look very tan."

"My mother is part albino."

It took a moment for her to realize that the new girl was making a joke, but once she did, a small smile broke out on her face. "Those girls over there." She pointed towards the bubble. "They aren't very nice."

"I know. They wouldn't let me sit up there with them."

That pleased the first girl. The newbie might not be so bad. "My name is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Masen." She stuck her hand out, something she had seen her father do many times when he was first meeting a new client.

The second girl took Elizabeth's hand, grinning. "I'm Renée."

 **1982 (November)**

She fiercely dug her finger nails into Elizabeth's hand, momentarily stopping her from proceeding. Her eyes wide with fear, she purposely meet her friends gaze. "Lizzie, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Of course I do!" She tossed her strangely shaded bronze hair aside so that Renée could see her own ears. "Look, I did all of these myself."

Renée moved closer to Elizabeth's face so that she could get a better look at the jewelry in her ears. Sure enough, there was not one but two studs in each with even an extra in one of her cartilages. They seemed to all be done symmetrically enough.

"Come on, don't be such a wimp! Do you think Karen freakin' Wells cried when she got her ears pierced?"

"Well, no," Renée chewed on her lip. "But I doubt she had Junie or Jules do it for her! I heard she went to that kiosk in the mall! Why can't we do that?"

"Because Karen Wells is a stuck up priss who had her rich daddy pay someone to do something anyone with a lighter and a sewing needle could have done." Elizabeth said calmly, eyeing those exact tools that now littered the shag carpet of her bedroom floor.

" _You_ have a rich daddy too," Renée not so nicely pointed out. "And I don't see any reason why we can't take advantage of that!"

"Fine." Elizabeth abruptly stood from her previous cross-legged position. "Let's hitch hike to Port Angeles at—" She snapped her head to look at the clock beside her bed. "11:30 at night and see if the mall is open! I'm sure your parents will be thrilled to get a call from the police after they find two thirteen year olds on the side of the road!"

"Ugh!" Renée threw her hands up into the air. "Fine! Let's do it!"

"God, finally!"

Elizabeth sat back down, tugging Renée with her. "Let me just clean the needle. And make sure you numb your ear first with the ice."

Following her friends direction, Renée stuck the melting ice cube to her ear lobe, on the verge of tears. A few minutes went by, the only sounds to fill the room being her racing heart and the heavy panting of Lizzie's dog, Sunny.

"Okay…give me the ice."

She did as she was told and handed over the frozen cube. Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt the soft spongy feel of the potato wedge get shoved behind her ear.

"Okay…" Elizabeth repeated, actually more uneasy than she was letting on. "Remember to stay still or it's not going to look right."

Renée nodded, her face slowly turning an unpleasant shade of green.

"I'm going to do the first one on the count of three."

Again, she nodded her head.

"Stop squirming!"

"Sorry. Just do it."

"One…" Elizabeth held the tip of the needle to the top of Renée's earlobe, biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from giving away how nervous she really was. Although she had done her own, she had never pierced another person's ear before. "Two…"

As hard as she could, she jabbed the needle into Renée's ear. "Three!"

 **1984 (January)**

At the force of the rock smashing into the window, the glass cracked into tiny, web-like cracks. They splintered up and around the initial blow before falling to the ground in uneven shards as Elizabeth's elbow collided into the frame. Using a stick to clear away the remaining pieces, she stuck her hand inside the door. Her fingers found the lock, turning it with a discrete _click_. With a slight push, the door opened easily.

"Come on," She muttered, making sure to step carefully around the glass littering the doorway. "Follow me."

Renée strode in apprehensively behind her friend, her teeth chattering from the frost outside. "Lizzie…what if they come home?"

"No one's coming home—they call it abandoned for a reason." Elizabeth closed the door behind Renée and turned her flashlight on, shining it around the room they had just broken into.

It was quite obviously a kitchen, with its massive steel refrigerator, dark wood cupboards, and porcelain counter tops. Even through the darkness, she could tell that the floor was a black and white checkered pattern. The light revealed two large stoves, sat side-by-side, and a china cabinet in the corner. There were plates still inside.

"This is creepy…" Renée whined from beside her.

Elizabeth agreed, linking her arm through Renée's and pulling her deeper inside the old mansion. They moved out into the foyer, the ceiling above high and made almost completely of an auburn mahogany. A massive grandfather clock stood tall and lonesome in a cove across from the grand stair case, which came up to the girls' left. Their feet transitioned from the tiled kitchen flooring to an ancient red carpet. With each step they took, dust seemed to come flying up.

As they walked, Elizabeth drew her fingers along the old, tearing wallpaper. It was smooth and smelled strongly of glue gone bad. High above them, hanging dominantly from the beamed ceiling, was a rusted chandelier. On either side of the foyer were rooms meant for entertaining guests; one, an old study with rows upon rows of books. A great desk sat in front of a bay window, two chairs ahead so that the master of the household could undoubtedly stage meetings with patrons. In the room across from it was a parlor, with velvet jade sofa's and a grand piano stationed in the far bend. Someone had gone to the trouble of putting plastic wrap over everything, most likely in an attempt to preserve the early 1900's furniture.

This wasn't creepy. "This is…" Elizabeth trailed off, mesmerized by the instrument before her. She ripped off the protectant sheeting, sitting down on the bench. She didn't even mind the dust.

"Weird." Renée finished for her.

"No," Her fingers lightly touched the keyboard. "This is beautiful."

She beat down on the keys, surprised when a sound true to the attempted note played pleasantly through the vacant hall. Exhilarated, Elizabeth played the first few lines of Beethoven's renowned 'Hammerklavier' in B flat major. Once she had stopped, there was a certain stillness that clogged the air.

"I can't believe it still works." She said, meeting Renée's gaze from across the room.

Renée anxiously looked around her as if she was expecting someone to be there, waiting to take her away in handcuffs. "Lizzie, can we just get on with it already? This place freaks me out…"

Elizabeth huffed out an annoyed breath, but nevertheless stood from her spot by the piano. "You need to learn not to be such a scaredy cat all the time. You know what happens to the people who never take any chances in life?"

They began walking up the first set of stairs, towards the second floor.

"What?" Renée asked, uncaring.

"Absolutely nothing."

At the top of the landing, there was another staircase that would take them to the third floor, two hallways that led down the east and west wings of the house, and an open area positioned right over where the front door was. Elizabeth walked towards the enormous window, taking in the birds-eye view of Forks and then the land that existed beyond it.

"Ren, there's a whole world out there." She pointed outwards. "Far away from here. And right now…this will one day just be a memory that doesn't matter unless you _make_ it matter. When you look back on your life, you aren't going to remember the times you were too scared to do anything. You're going to remember the things you were actually bold enough to try."

Elizabeth looked back at her friend and smiled. "Life is nothing but a bunch of stories. And I sure as hell am not going to let mine be boring."

Renée didn't say anything, but she didn't have to.

"Now let's go find that ghost Karen and her cult claim to have found here." Elizabeth shook the bag strapped to her back, shimmying her eyebrows sarcastically. "I've got the candles."

With that, she grabbed hold of Renée's hand and hauled her up the second flight of steps, to the third floor where the old Victorian style mansion's previous owner was rumored to have died more than half a century ago.

Elizabeth knew that was utter ridiculousness, but pulled her friend up the stairs nevertheless.

* * *

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	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Forget what hurt you in the past, but never forget what it taught you. However, if it taught you to hold onto grudges, seek revenge, not forgive or show compassion, to categorize people as good or bad, to distrust and be guarded with your feelings, then you didn't learn a thing."

-Shannon L. Adler

* * *

 _ **NOW**_

Max and his absurd regards are still weighing heavily on my mind when I turn down the street my store is located on. The familiar black and white stripes of the cabana come into focus, and suddenly I feel the fog of confusion and anxiousness begin to clear away. My work has always been something of a safe haven for me.

I own a small flower shop named _Fleurs De Grace,_ and with the start of the third year now, I can confidently say it has done successfully. Year one was the start-up, which as any business owner knows, can be very stressful and at most leaves you with the same amount of money you began with. Last year things picked up, though, and I've begun finally making revenue. I didn't do this for the money, something I suppose is a good thing since its nothing more than enough to pay the bills with a little extra to spare. I did, and continue to do it, for the response I see in my customers.

People buy flowers for others for plenty of reasons—from random holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, as a means of getting well, for party's and celebrations, for funerals…the list goes on and on. I didn't realize just how many occasions there are that warrant the gift of flowers until I opened up shop. There's always a story behind them, there's always a distinct reason for their exchange from one person to another, which is partly why I was so drawn to the trade in the first place. There is always some sort of meaning behind them. Flowers are nothing more than innocent beauty that eventually dries out and dies, but not before dazzling the lives it touches.

There is a certain inspiration behind the gift of a stem and some petals that is simply pure…wholesome. I love giving others the ability to brighten one's day, to say sentimental words they aren't able to conjure up by themselves, to console someone in their time of loss. I love selling flowers, which at the end of the day…if one of the few things I can truly pin the 'L' word to.

At this thought I pull open one side of the French doors that leads into my store, Max and his insanity thoroughly forgotten for the time being. A feeling of relief and contentment rushes through me as I take in the gray walls—purposely painted that color so that they would contrast the rows and rows of vibrant flowers—the marble tile, the expansive windows overlooking two separate streets of District 3 because of its corner location. The more typical flowers such as the roses, tulips, and lilies sit on stalls at the front, easy for customers in a rush to have quick access to. The less known African violets and dahlias are towards the back, used more often in arrangements for catered events than the everyday bouquet.

The natural floral smell that permanently takes up residence in the small shop enters my nostrils and fills my being with a sense of belonging. This is my home, far more than my hometown of Forks ever was or even the house in the woods I currently live in. This is where I go to feel okay.

"Rose!" I call, walking past the front counter so that I can get to the back of the store. "Is that you?" I hang my coat and purse up on the hooks identical to the one's I have at home.

"Yeah, one second!" There is a rustle and a moment later Rose sticks her blonde head out of the supply closet. "Good morning," She beams at me. "I was just checking the inventory. We seem to be good on the containers, ribbon, and wires, but we're running a little low on cards and foam. I'll make sure to call Oasis later to make sure the next shipment is on its way."

I nod, walking over to the refrigerator in the small break room to look for some breakfast. "Rosalie, you are the best. I knew I hired you for a reason."

She laughs from behind me. "Tell that to James. He still claims it's because of Emmett."

I find a strawberry yogurt and turn around. Rose is already holding a spoon out for me, and I take it gratefully. "He knows you're affiliation with my brother had nothing to do with hiring you. He's just jealous that you were chosen because of your outstanding work ethic, opposed to him who was hired on account of his looks."

She knows I'm only joking, but still we both giggle like teenagers. Truthfully, James was hired by default; I figured a retired male model was better than the ex-con and twenty-five year old still living at home who applied at the same time he did. Whether I was in fact right or not was still up in the air.

"He is pretty. And that accent…I can't have him because I'm married, but there's no reason you can't."

 _Oh no, not this again_. "Rose, you know it would be inappropriate for me to be in any sort of relationship with my employees." I say diplomatically. She has been hinting at this since the day he started working for me, which was only a week before the store opened more than two years ago.

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head so that her long waves flow softly through the air. Rosalie is perfect—astonishingly beautiful, smart, funny, confident. She grew up in New York as the daughter of the famous business tycoon Jonathan Hale, who was as cunning and successful as he was wealthy. She was raised by her nanny in a mansion in the countryside until she was old enough to be sent to boarding school, where she played tennis and graduated with the second highest GPA in her class. Because of the strings her father was able to pull, she attended Harvard and was well on her way to following right in Jonathan's footsteps. It didn't happen like that, however, because Rosalie never graduated. Emmett told me once that her mother committed suicide when she was only a child, but that still isn't the worst thing to ever happen to her.

I'm not sure what made her drop out of a prestigious Ivy League school a year before graduation and move across the country to work a low paying job in a flower shop, but whatever it was, I have never pried to find out. I understand that we all have a past we'd rather not share.

Rosalie is my best friend, and I love her. She has a good life, married to my big bear of an older brother who is crazy about her and will never intentionally let another bad thing touch her life again. But sometimes…I worry about her. Emmett is in the military, so he isn't home all the time and I fear that if, god forbid, something were to happen to him, it would kill her. For her sake as well as my own, I hope that this truly is his last tour, as he says it is. Rosalie is strong, but not strong enough to stand the death of her husband on top of all the baggage she already carries around with her.

When I think of her like this, I can't help but wonder if this is the same way people view me; if they also fear that a gust of wind with just the right amount of force could knock me over. For all I know, the sadness I sometimes see imbedded behind her cerulean blue eyes could be a reflection of my own. I guess the bond that links our friendship is that Rosalie is just as broken as I am.

Every time I brush off her comments about me making a move towards James, I always claim it is because of my professional position above him. It would be irresponsible for me to sleep with or even date an employee. But the truth is…when I look at him—at his tan complexion, his toned form, his flawlessly styled blonde hair—I see an incredibly handsome man in his late twenties who time and time again has flirted with me, never giving me any reason to think he would be opposed to a liaison with me…and I feel nothing.

He's gorgeous, and available, and practically defines 'a good time,' and I have zero interest to be anything more than the woman who writes his paychecks every other Friday.

Somethings wrong with me, that much I know to be true. I _should_ be attracted to him, I _should_ want him. He's perfect in the same way Rosalie is, but when I look into his gray eyes, I find myself imagining them to be a penetrating shade of emerald. When I see him smile at me with his symmetrical grin, I can't help but wish it was just a little bit crooked. It's ridiculous that I can't have any kind of relationship anymore without comparing him to a ghost—a ghost that is part of the reason I'm so irrevocably ruined.

I'm damaged goods because _he_ made me this way.

My hands have begun balling into fists at my sides from beneath the table, and I try my best to smooth each finger straight against my thigh. The expression on Rosalie's face says she knows I have lost track of the conversation we were having, so I pull myself from my thoughts and attempt to remember where we left off.

 _Oh right. James._ "And even if I did want to ask him out, I'm pretty sure Victoria has a thing for him. You've seen the way she stares at him from behind the counter as he loads up the truck."

James works as our delivery guy who deals with all the shipments of flowers that come and go from _Fleurs De Grace._ He doesn't usually come in until noon on days that aren't major holidays for us or events we are catering since his job entails him to be delivering loads of merchandise all over Washington well into the night. I just hired Victoria less than a year ago to work as the official cash register personnel, a job which we all used to contribute to when we could but have now become too busy as the store has gained popularity. She's a pleasant enough personality to have around the shop, and I do suspect that she has feelings for James, but the reason I bring her up is because I know Rosalie doesn't like her.

From before me, I see her face fall dramatically at the mention of her name, as I knew it would. She slightly scrunches up her nose, forgetting her previous attempts at pushing me towards James. "Yeah, I'm sure _she_ likes him. _She_ likes everybody." Rose even scoffs in disgust. " _Whore."_

I'm internally smug at the direction I have forced the dialogue to turn. Last June, when Emmett was back home on leave, he came to the shop to pick Rosalie up for dinner, and while waiting for her to finish up, Victoria had shamelessly flirted with him. It was all innocent, just some fake laughing and shoulder touching, but it had left Rose furious. Letting go of grudges isn't a strong suit of hers. It isn't one of mine either.

The bell above the front door twinkles at being opened, and the two of us both move to see who it is. I throw away the empty yogurt container, leave the spoon in the sink, and walk to the front counter to greet the newcomer. "Hey, Ang." I say, leaning against the threshold. "You look tired." I add with a wink.

With a very loud sigh, Angela rushes into the back room to put her things away just as I did upon arrival.

"How'd the date go?"

Angela only shakes her head at us, sluggishly walking towards the coffee maker in the corner. "Need…caffeine…"

Rosalie crosses her arms across her chest and comes to stand next to me. "I'd say judging by the bags beneath your eyes and you arriving a good twenty minutes late, it went _very well_."

From under her thick, glossy black bangs and square-shaped glasses, her eyes flash towards us irritably.

"Say, are those the same clothes you were wearing yesterday?"

"No!" Angela quickly says, defensibly putting her hands on her hips. "But if you must know, the date did go very well." She brings the coffee mug up to her face so that we won't be able to see her blush. "Two and a half times."

The two of us howl with cheers, bringing Angela to sit down at the table so that we can hear more about it. "So which one was this?" Rosalie asks, mirroring my precise inquiries. "Mechanic Eric or Teacher Ben?"

"Teacher Ben." Angela clarifies, grinning widely. "He took me to a really nice vegetarian restaurant, and then we went and saw that new movie with the actress we hate."

Rose and I both groan. "How was it?"

"I'm not sure," She answers timidly, blushing again and pushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "I honestly didn't see much of it."

Again, we shriek with fits of laughter, Rose and I huddling closer and leaning further in. Angela manages the design and construction of arrangements here at the store, and with her job being so crucial for a growing flower shop, she was one of my first hires. Although the relationship I have with her is not nearly as deep as the one I have with Rosalie, Angela is someone I do consider a close friend—even despite not seeing her seated across the dinner table during meals at family get-togethers. Opposed to Rose with her constant self-assurance and fearlessness, Angela is quiet and shy, similar to my own natural disposition. She is very hardworking and undoubtedly part of the reason my business has boomed over the last few quarters.

Her presence is soothing the way a grandmother or a warm cup of tea is.

From what I know, her father is a minister in a small town similar to Forks. Growing up in a house of faith left her social life very limited and her relationship status non-existent. As of late she has joined an online dating website to meet guys, so Rosalie and I have been hearing all about how it's been going. So far there has been a bowling alley manager, a Starbucks barista, an accountant, a professional clown, and now a mechanic and teacher. As anyone could have guessed, the first dates were awkward to the extent of being comical in the retelling. She seemed not to mind the mechanic, and apparently _really_ didn't mind the teacher. I'm genuinely happy for her that _Single & Ready to Mingle _has finally matched her with someone decent.

While listening to Angela describe in detail the exact shade of blue Teacher Ben's eyes are when the light of a candle flickers across them, the bells ring a second time and I rise from my seat on cue. "I'll get it." Glancing at the wall clock, I notice that we only opened a couple minutes ago at 9. If someone is coming in at this time, it's probably some poor husband who forgot his wife's birthday or wedding anniversary.

Abruptly cutting Angela off, Rosalie stands as well. "That might be a woman who called earlier to see if we could cater her wedding. I think she said the last place bailed on her or something and now the date is only about a month away."

I scrunch my eyebrows at her in reply.

"Didn't I say something to you about it when you came in?"

"No," I say slowly. I shake my head. Immediately, I know that we will have to decline the woman's request. "What did you tell her?"

"Obviously that it is way too short of notice. One month would barely give us enough time to order the flowers, let alone figure out arrangements and styles. Plus, the wedding is the week before February 14th."

If the past two years were any indication, we make more than a third of our profits on Valentine's Day. We've already begun preparing for it. There is absolutely no way we'll be able to accommodate any large parties so close to our busiest time of the year. "You told her all that and she still came?" I ask, surprised and somewhat annoyed that I am now going to have to deal with yet another bridezilla. Brides-to-be are crazy.

"I told her all that and she said she'd like to come by and discuss it further." Rose shrugs her shoulders. "When I told her there really was nothing we could do she asked for you by name."

"Really?" A feeling of triumph washes through me, my lips turning up in astonishment. We have done only a little over a dozen so far, and even though they had seemed to all go smoothly, it's not as if we have the customers take a satisfactory poll afterwards. "Had someone recommended us?"

"No, I think she said she knows you…are you sure I didn't say anything?" Rosalie walks back to the closet she had been in when I first arrived. "I'm pretty sure I wrote it down somewhere."

"I'm sure." I say over my shoulder, already on my way out. "It's fine, though. I'll deal with it."

I step from the backroom into the front of the store, my heart racing in anticipation for who is out there. Unless my mother is getting remarried for the third time, and has up until this point decided not to tell me, it can't be anyone closely related to me. Friends wise, they're both currently sitting in the back gossiping over Ang's date.

My internal deliberations freeze at the same pace my gait does as I come to the realization that by general order of deduction, there can only be one person waiting for me.

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	5. Chapter 4

_A/N_

 _I didn't want to offend anybody in anyway, so just be warned that there is an (almost) physical assault in this chapter as well as a little swearing. I want the viewers to know that everything I write in this story is for a reason. Everything. The "adult situations" present in this chapter are important for building a character._

 _If that didn't scare you away, enjoy :)_

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

"There are only patterns, patterns on top of patterns, patterns that affect other patterns. Patterns hidden by patterns. Patterns within patterns. If you watch close, history does nothing but repeat itself. What we call chaos is just patterns we haven't recognized."

-Chuck Palahniuk

* * *

 _ **THEN**_

 **1986 (June)**

The moon above was bright and full in the dark sky as it poured down across the forest. Aphotic shadows swayed with the blowing wind, making the tree branches appear as if they were dancing along with the pulsing mob of teenagers. From a stereo someone had dragged out of the house, the final chorus of 'Every Breath You Take' by _The Police_ played deafeningly through the dark property.

 _Every move you make; every step you take; I'll be watching you…_ the tenor of Sting's voice as he sang the last three lines of the song echoed eerily in Elizabeth's head. Her eyes drooped as the tree's moved around her. The plastic red cup she grasped weakly slipped easily through her fragile fingers and she giggled when its gold liquid seeped into the satin fibers of her dress.

"Uh-oh!" She shrieked out into a thick haze of muffled sounds. "I guess I have to take it off now!"

The surrounding crowd of people erupted into choruses of cheers, everyone holding their own cups up into the air. Warm beer splashed down like rain, making Lizzie laugh once more at the mess they were all making in the back yard of her family's house. Blindly, she grabbed another cup from someone's loose hands and threw every last drop of the drink into her mouth. Seeping its way down her throat, it burned like an inferno. She liked it.

Throwing the cup aside, she pushed through the mass of sweating bodies, images of color swirling before her. Observing the ground below, Elizabeth was able to squint through the heavy fog of confusion and see disposed cigarette butts, forgotten bottle corks, and an abundant amount of dead leaves and pine-needles. Upon closing her eyes, the sour stench of cheap beer, vodka, and smoke became more prominent.

The obnoxious sounds of thumping footsteps and shouts of excitement from other teenagers partying after an extensive school year engrossed her ears.

A pair of big arms wound their way around her waist from behind.

"Hey," The predator whispered into her ear, making her body turn on the spot to meet the cool gray eyes of her boyfriend. After a second or so, the rest of his features came into focus, first his gelled hair, then the dimples that made most girls go limp at the knees. She looped her arms around his neck, taking in the smoke smell on his shirt. "Wanna get out of here?"

She nodded. He flashed his killer smile and took hold of her hand.

Before they left, Elizabeth looked back briefly in the direction of the party. Junie Richardson was passed out on the ground, Jules Hammond was huddled in the middle of a bunch smokers with a lit joint between two fingers, and Karen Wells was making out with some guy by the hot tub. The person she was really searching for was nowhere to be found, but Elizabeth suspected Renée had finally summoned up the courage to finally talk to Charlie Swan, the boy she had been pining over all year.

Hopefully she was off somewhere with him.

Even though Elizabeth's legs were shaky, Michael Newton still managed to heave her limp body through the coniferous forest one step at a time. They didn't make it very far before he stopped and was pushing her up against a tree, the screams and chants of their fellow classmates a barely existent noise in the background. His tongue forced itself into her mouth, tracing the inside of her bottom lip. She tried to kiss him back, to tell herself that this was just a normal make out session, but he thrust her harder into the bark. It dug into her shoulder blades; it hurt.

She could smell the alcohol on his breath, she could taste it on his lips. He was drunk and he was rough. He had never been very good at playing nice while intoxicated by the remnants of either of their parents liquor cabinets.

Tearing her mouth away from his, she tried shoving him away. "Mikeyyy," She slurred. "You're hurting me."

Her arms were no match to his strength, however, and this only seemed to hearten him. He forced his lips back on hers, pushing himself closer to her body. Being under the influence of alcohol had always made him urgent.

She kept her eyes wide open, staring at his closed lids, the white skin stretching so thin it almost looked translucent. After a few moments he broke away for air and she found her chance to hopefully talk some sense into him. "Seriously, get off of me. You're not thinking clearly."

Newton's mouth turned up into an unbelievably ugly sneer. His chest vibrated slightly against her now trembling hands as a booming cackle bursted from within him. He laughed at her. She tried to squirm away from him, but he held onto a big chunk of her hair. She whimpered in protest.

"Come on, baby, don't be like that."

For the first time, Elizabeth was scared—frightened that he might actually do something to harm her. She whipped her head around, looking for some kind of assistance but of course no one was there to help. Lights from the party were dim in the distance. "Please stop." She whispered, her voice shaky and not at all as persuasive as she wanted it to be.

She screamed, but on one came to assist.

Tears stung her eyes. All out fear overcame her. This wasn't going to happen—she wasn't going to let it. She did the only thing she could. In one, quick motion, her knee snapped up to meet his groin. As she knew it would, Mike keeled over, moaning in pain. Curse words flew viscously from his mouth.

She tried to sprint, to get away from him as soon as possible, but the unshed tears blurred her vision so she only made it a few yards before she was falling over her own damn feet. The rocky canvas of the forest floor scraped and cut her bare limbs as she fell down onto it. Bloody and raw from the crying, she laid perfectly still, petrified by the way the ground shook with his approaching footsteps.

She tried shouting again, but he was on top of her, covering her mouth with his hot, sticky hand. Her breath caught in her throat and her body froze up, stiffening into the rich soil. His heavy panting seeped into the night, raising the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up straight. Elizabeth squirmed, and he held her down harder. Harder. Harder.

She was silently bawling when suddenly he wasn't on top of her anymore. The absence of his heavy body left her stiff and shivering on the ground. A hand was rolling her over, she was crying into the shoulder of a familiar being.

"Oh my god, Lizzie!" Renée was holding her tightly, sinking to the ground to be closer to her. "Are you okay?" She sucked in an urgent breath.

No, she wasn't all right. Elizabeth cried vigorously, her eyes closed, fighting off the memory of what just happened—more specifically, what _could_ have happened. She shook violently in Renée's arms. "W-w-where's Mikey?" She at last blubbered.

"Don't worry about him." Together, they turned their gaze towards an unconscious form on the ground, his letterman jacket reflecting the moonlight. "Charlie took care of it."

 **1987 (August)**

Her hand trailed slowly along the grain of the wood, her fingertips effortlessly gliding over the deep cherry stain and glossy finish. With each eye closed, she could feel the areas where the carpenter had shaved lines and other designs. She could feel where the lid split in two.

Elizabeth blinked twice and was confronted by the sight of a casket suspended six feet above its final destination. She stood on the green tarp placed over the dig site, her sneakers making a distinct impression in the felt-like material because of how long she'd been remaining in that particular spot. The ceremony had been over for hours.

Someone had placed a bouquet of white roses on top of the coffin, and she couldn't stop herself from pulling one free from the bunch. A thorn dug into her thumb, a drop of blood splashed down onto the wooden surface, and she clutched the stem tighter.

"Excuse me, Miss," A soft voice spoke from behind her. "We have to lower it down now."

She turned to find an old man with caramel colored wrinkles adorning his cheeks and a hat clutched to his chest, as if he had taken it off to show respect during the National Anthem. _He's probably accustomed to doing this_ , she thought in reference in dealing with mourning relatives who can't seem to leave a funeral even after it's passed.

How sad it must be to be someone who lowers dead bodies into the ground every day.

"Just give me a minute." Her words were harsh and quick, like venom filling a snake bite. "Please." She added this only after she heard no sound of his retreat.

"Only a minute." There was a hiss when his foot undoubtedly snapped a fallen branch in two. "And I'm sorry for your loss." He left, and she felt the absence.

For a few seconds, she could only stare. They say that there are five stages of grief; she was still stuck on the first one. It wasn't that Elizabeth was exactly denying her father's death. Consciously, she knew the plane he had been riding on had crashed a week ago and he had died instantly from the force of the impact. She _knew_ it, but she didn't _feel_ it. Not yet. The ultimate fact that the great Edward Masen would never be coming home from another business trip was not something she could at that time register.

Elizabeth was numb. She couldn't feel anything, so she couldn't feel pain. And it's the fear of pain that's worse than the actual pain itself. It's the knowing that something horrible is about to happen, but there's no way of stopping it. Dread tends to be a very good motivator.

A warm hand slipped over her shoulder, cupping the acromial end of her clavicle. "Lizzie…" There was a deep, concerned sigh. "What are you still doing here?"

Renée came to stand beside her, draping her arms around her.

"I can't go home." Elizabeth admitted, scrunching her eyes closed. "In that large, fucking _empty_ house I see him…everywhere."

From her peripheral, she saw Renée nod. "You can come home with me."

"I think your parents already have a knocked up teenager to deal with. They don't need to be taking in orphans on top of it."

Renée sucked in a sharp breath, her arms automatically going to the growing bump of her belly at the mention of her current condition. "That's not fair."

"Life's not fair."

Renée's fingers began drawing circles over her six months pregnant stomach. "If you won't come home with me, at least let Charlie give you a ride. He's just over there in the parking lot."

Elizabeth lifted her head to see Renée's boyfriend sitting in his blue pickup truck, impatiently drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel. He meet her gaze; he looked anxious. Then again, he was an eighteen year old with a low wage job at the local bait and tackle shop and a kid on the way. He always looked anxious.

"No." Her tone was hollow and intolerant of any further discussion on the matter. "I need to get out of here—out of Forks."

"Where would you even go?"

"Anywhere." Her eyes rose in their sockets, taking in the sky above. It was going to rain; she knew it. "I have a GED, a huge inheritance from my dead dad, and an aunt in Chicago. Maybe I'll go there."

 **1987 (November)**

Her converse sneakers squeaked against the tile flooring as she walked into the library, making Elizabeth feel self-conscious and warranting a harsh expression from the tall, slender lady behind the front desk. The woman, somewhere in her sixties, wore a stiff, charcoal pencil skirt and blazer, her skin pale and wrinkled. She pursed her lips at the juvenile before her, squinting her eyes from behind her red-rimmed spectacles. The librarian appraised Elizabeth with her nose in the air and an apprehension to take her seriously.

"May I help you?" Her voice rang out, distinct and severe.

"Uh, yeah," Elizabeth took a ball of crumpled up papers from her pocket, plopping it down on the desk to that she could sift through the various movie ticket stubs, receipts, dollar bills, and notes. The woman's nostrils flared at the mess she was making, and her fingers combed until they found a business card. It was bent in half with a chewed piece of gum stuck in between. Her eyes scanned the hand written scrawl on the back, written in blue ink. "I'm here to see a Mr. J. Jenks."

The librarian arched a thin eyebrow, taking in how young the girl before her was. She couldn't be more than eighteen. " _You're_ the client?"

"Yes." She folded her arms across her chest. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Ignoring the question, she simply pointed toward one of the two halls that ran behind her. "You're late. He reserved the conference room for only an hour."

Without another word, Elizabeth grabbed her pile of trash from the counter and shoved in back into her jacket pockets before leaving the front desk. She walked down the direction the rude librarian had indicated. Her sneakers continued to squeal, although this time she did nothing to hide it; she didn't even allow herself to feel embarrassed. Her gait stopped at the room marked _Con. 1_ and proceeded to step inside.

J. Jenks was already there, sitting squarely in a seat on the closer end of the long table. There had to be more than twenty chairs seated on either side, and instantly Elizabeth knew why it was referred to as a conference room. Why only the two of them were gathering there, however, was far from her understanding.

Jenks jumped up and thrust his hand out to her. "Miss Masen, it's good to see you again."

"Elizabeth is fine." She made no move to accept his handshake, so he dropped it and directed her to take a seat parallel him. She had told him this twice before.

"Of course." He reached into his briefcase and brought out a manila folder full of papers. "I believe we have some business to attend to."

Again she looked around at the massive room. "Why here?"

"It's much more private than the park." He said, not looking up from his paperwork, referencing the place they had previously encountered one another. That had been a week before, when he had given her the card with all his information on it.

"Is that lady out there—" She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "Always such a bitch?"

A small smirk pulled at the middle aged man's dark lips. "I wouldn't know. Chicago isn't my norm."

"If you worked with my father, no where's your norm."

"Oh, the life of a consulting attorney." He lifted his gaze to meet hers. "Let me just begin by saying again what a privilege it was to work with Edward. He was a great man, and I know he loved you greatly."

She dipped her head in acknowledgement to his words, but refused to say anything else on the matter. It was too painful. The flight 195 crash of the civilian airline three months ago was a tragedy christened a "national catastrophe" by the press. The plane had experienced engine trouble only two hours after its departure from New York City, and fell thirty thousand feet from the sky into Lake Michigan, more than seventeen thousand miles from its intended destination in Seattle. All 237 passengers on board were killed. The crash made headlines in the news; President Reagan had even gone on air to commemorate the lost citizens.

The story was much publicized in the weeks that followed, funerals were documented, people gave speeches. It was sad, it was heartbreaking, but it wasn't anything life-changing for the majority of the country. Everyone gave their moment of silence, their respect, and then it was over. People went on with lives. They forgot about the 237 victims of flight 195. They didn't even recognize the true victims, which were the families who had to go on living afterwards.

Her dad was by no means the father-of-the-year. He regularly left for lengthy trips, he showed his love through expensive gifts, and she spent more time with their housekeeper than she ever had with him. But he was all she had—he was her only family. There was no aunt there in Chicago. There had never been. She needed an excuse to leave Forks, she needed a way to justify never coming back to Renée.

Elizabeth shook her head. _Stop_. She brought her attention back to Jenks. "Thank you."

"So, let's get down to business, then." Jenks brought his hands together atop the legal documents before him, his large arms bulging against his sports jacket sleeves. He made intense eye contact with her.

Across from him, Elizabeth sat still and withdrawn. Her knees tightly pressed together, her finger nails digging into her palms on her lap, she nodded and remained attentive.

"As you are already aware, your father left behind a very large sum of money. In addition to the money, there is of course the estate in Forks, Washington and a townhouse right here in Illinois. You being his only child and on account of him no longer being married, you are the sole beneficiary of all his assets."

She nodded a second time. This all, she already knew.

"His wishes are that you do what you like with the houses. He has set aside a sum to be donated to several charities of his choice, as well as to be used specifically for your college education—again, if you so choose to participate in such institutions. That aside, and after taxes, you are still left roughly with 1.4 million dollars."

Her jaw physically dropped in its socket. Her lips fell open, there was an audible _pop_. "Oh my god." She had known her father was a wealthy man who was very good at his job, and that she wouldn't be left with _nothing_. But to hear it spelled out like that, in quantitative numbers, made his prosperity more than just a state of mind and his death all the more real.

1.4 million dollars. That was a lot.

He chuckled at her visible shock. It was a deep, throaty sound that filled up the entire conference room and echoed in her bones after he was done. "Yes, Elizabeth. Your father left you very secure."

That was more than secure. That was enough to something good, something bad. That was enough to make a difference in her life—in anyone's life.

"However," His face fell, and he became more serious. "You will not be granted full access to that money until your twenty-first birthday."

"But I'm only eighteen now." She got louder, petulant. "You mean I'll have to wait three years until I get anything? What do you suppose I do in meantime, live off the streets?"

"Oh, of course not. It says here that your birthday is the first of December, is that correct?"

"Yes." She relied flatly, annoyed.

"Then that means it will be closer to two years, not three." This did nothing to ease her discomposure. "And I said _full_. You won't be 'living off the streets' as you put it. You'll be granted a small allowance each month until then, and you'll obviously have the mansion in Forks, or the house in Chicago to live in. The mortgage and upkeep of both is already covered for."

It didn't sound awful, but it still pissed her off that her father hadn't trusted her enough to have all of it now. On the other hand, it wasn't as if he was expecting to die before she was twenty-one. She couldn't be too angry with him. "What do I do now for two years? Sit around and twiddle my thumbs?"

"Whatever you want. You can live here or there, get a job for extra spending money, go to college." Jenks sat up, leaning closer towards her. "I believe that your father wanted you to be comfortable, but not to the extant where you didn't have to work for it. He wanted you to build your own life."

Elizabeth nodded along with him, although she was far from comprehending his words. _Build your own life_. She grimaced at the thought.

She couldn't even deal with the one she had now.

* * *

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	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Fear keeps us focused on the past or worried about the future. If we can acknowledge our fear, we can realize that right now we are okay. Right now, today, we are still alive, and our bodies are working marvelously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones."

-Thich Nhat Hanh

* * *

 _ **NOW**_

 _Alice Cullen._

The moment her name runs through my mind, I catch sight of her small, bird-like frame standing in the middle of one of my windows, her back arched towards me so that I can't see her face. Still, I know it's her. She must see me staring in the refection because she spins around. She looks different, with her raven black hair cropped short at her jaw line and a diamond ring glistening off of the fourth finger of her left hand. Somehow, though, she manages to simultaneously look the exact same way she did seven years ago. Her clothes are stylish: off white pea coat flaring out at her thighs to show a fancy, business style dress underneath, an expensive brand-name purse on her arm. Her eyes wide and knowing.

Those eyes belong to Elizabeth. They belong to him.

"Alice," I cough out, shocked beyond my wits. I nervously chew on the corner of my lip, a tick I've had since grade school. It only ever seems to come out when I'm in close proximity of a Cullen. "What are you doing here?" Why _are you here?_ How _are you here?_

"Hi, Bella," Her high, wind chime of a voice says with seamless precision. "How are you?"

I don't even know how to respond to that. How am I? Large bodies of water still turn my insides into knots, I have the same dream every single night, and I've been going to the same psychiatrist for almost a whole decade. _How am I?_ I have to remind myself that it's not her that I hate, it's not her face that I wake up seeing most mornings.

"I…manage." It's the most straightforward response I can attain.

"You more than manage. Bella, this shop…it's beautiful." She brings up her hand to push a stray lock that has fallen forward behind her ear. Alice spins around, pointing to the various flowers on display. "This is amazing."

Alice has always had this way about her. Comparable to Angela's soothing manner, she has a definite conviction to her voice when she speaks. In high school, people used to think the reason she always got what she wanted from her parents, boys, and even teachers was because she was stuck up and demanding. But the truth is, it was for the same reason that I now unconsciously feel proud of myself in response to her compliment. Alice sees things for more than they are, understands them beyond their face value, and then makes you feel special for being a part of it. Her opinion of things is never wrong, so nobody has ever been very good at arguing with her.

Even at this time, I can't stop a timid smile from pulling at my cheeks. Her positive view of my shop is a pat on the back from a strict grandfather, a five star review from the toughest critic in town. If she believes my store to by amazing…it might just be. This familiar feeling of needing her approval of something, and then being overjoyed with receiving it, is not something that I _want_ to want. I'm a grown woman, for god's sake. I shouldn't require Alice Cullen's authorization to feel good about myself.

"Thank you." I say tightly, at an inward odds. Not wanting to have to evoke anything else of the past, I try to change the subject. I jerk my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of Rosalie and Ang, who I can to some extent still hear the murmurs of from the other room. "My friend said you called earlier. You're engaged?"

The air between us is heavy and stifling. She's hiding it well, but I can tell she's as uncomfortable as I am. She takes her remaining leather glove off and wipes her unquestionably damp hand awkwardly on the wool of her couture. Her ring finger of the other hand twitches at its acknowledgment.

"Yes," An ear to ear smile instantaneously breaks out on her face. "His name is Jasper. He's a lawyer from Texas. He moved up here to work for—"She halts, stopping herself from finishing, and instead chooses to go another route in the banter. "He moved up here to work in the music business."

I try my best to ignore her slip-up. It's difficult, so I grind my teeth. "That's great," I say weakly, giving a very poor attempt at sounding enthusiastic. "I'm really happy for you."

She dips her head. "Thank you."

Silence. I'm the one to now rub my sweaty palms along the coarse fabric of my skirt. Trying to fill the unpleasant void, I say the first thing to enter my head. "I heard you were living in New York."

Alice immediately grabs the bone I have thrown. "Yes, I was. I interned for _Ralph Lauren_ for a year after college until I was hired as a personal assistant. I got promoted to be a buyer here in Seattle last spring. Mom was of course thrilled. I'm hoping to one day be a designer."

"You're doing it." I say simply. It's the easiest thing I've had to say to her yet. "That was your dream, to work for a big fashion company and eventually design your own line. I remember that journal of all your sketches. They were good."

"That's really nice of you to say."

Again, there is peace, but it is far from peaceful. Reiterating my first statement of _what are you doing here?_ I try "So, what can I help you with? Rose said she told you there wouldn't be enough time for us to be able to cater your wedding."

"Yes, she did. It's kind of funny that her name is Rose." I stare at her, at a loss for what to reply with. "You know, since this is a flower shop."

 _Ah._ James had brought that one up before. I uneasily chuckle. "Yeah, I guess it is."

There's another painfully unnerving pause. "So…" She starts after a moment. "About the wedding—"

"I would help you if I could, but there just isn't enough time. I'm sorry you ran all the way down here just for me to tell you what you already knew. Isn't your wedding in a month?"

"It's Sunday, February 8th." She says matter-of-factly. "A little less than five weeks."

In order to visually show Alice that my hands are pretty much tied when it comes to this, I walk to the front counter and pull our large desktop calendar out from below. She follows. In either my own barely-legible scrawl or Rosalie's bubbly cursive, almost every single day between now and then are filled in with something. "See? I'm sorry, and as a woman trying to run a business, I don't want to turn a potential customer away. But what you're asking of me…is just not possible."

"I know," Her green iris's bore a hole into my own, her gaze innocent and almost pouty. She looks as if she has broken her mother's favorite vase and is getting ready to beg for forgiveness. "I lied."

 _What?_ "Excuse me?"

"I lied." She repeats. "I don't need you to cater my wedding. Don't get me wrong, I have heard really great things about _Fleurs De Grace_ , and I am certain that you would do a wonderful job. I've had another florist booked for more than a year because I didn't want to have to put you in a position you weren't comfortable with. We didn't exactly part on the best of terms…"

My life seven years ago is something I have relentlessly tried to forget. However, purposely trying to block a memory is like waiting for a pot of water to boil or not scratching an itch—ignoring it only seems to intensify the power it has over you. Most memories tend to blur around the edges and lose their actuality over time, but because I have so fiercely attempted to force the past from my recollection, everything about the most awful period of my existence burns with the power of a wild fire in my mind. My memory is scorched with images of the Cullen family.

The last time I saw Alice plays in my thoughts as a movie I can't leave the theater of. I see her shocked face, her tear glazed eyes. I remember the horrible things I said to her with perfect clarity. I had blamed her for what happened, although that partially loses its significance since I had blamed everyone at that time. I actually held her responsible due to the call she had left me that morning in my voicemail box. _"Bella are you alright?"_ It had frantically said. _"Something doesn't feel right…"_

Alice was naturally right. She's always right.

"I understand." And I really do. I wouldn't have called me either. "But then why are you here?"

"Well…" _Oh, no._ Most of my teenage years consisted of Alice beginning a sentence that way, right before she rapidly went into some kind of spiel that ended up convincing me into something I never intended on doing.

I sigh. "Alice, what is it?"

"Is there somewhere we can sit?"

"Please, just say it." _Oh, god. What on earth can she possibly want from me?_ "I'm technically on the clock. The shop opened twenty minutes ago."

"Okay." Alice moves closer to the counter. "Let me just start by saying that even though we haven't seen each other in close to ten years, I still consider you a friend."

I'm confused and speechless.

"I know that you were in a very rough place in your life when you said all those things, so in my mind they are void. As you now are aware, I am getting married in a month, and my cousin Cynthia was supposed to be the person helping me with everything. However, she is seven months pregnant and was having some complications with the baby so has been sentenced to bed rest until her due date. I know this is so last minute but…to any capacity do you think we could be friends again?"

As Alice's rambling goes on, I ultimately come to the verdict that she knows me too well. She knows just what buttons to push. And it's scary to comprehend that someone knows how to effortlessly manipulate you into complying with their demands.

I still am not sure what those demands are, though.

"What?"

She huffs, as if it's obvious. "Bella, would you please be my maid of honor?"

I'm shocked. I don't know what to say. Any friendship we once had had been over a long time ago, in a part of my life I do my best not to think about. "Alice…" I look down at my fingers as they dance across the dark wood of the counter so that I don't have to see the hurt in her features at my upcoming rejection. "You said it yourself. We haven't seen each other in seven years. We're basically strangers."

"No," On the rare arguments that one does have with her, she never goes down without a fight. Her determination is truthfully irritating, but also moderately flattering. " _You_ said it. I'm doing the thing I always wanted to do—I'm the exact same person I was at seventeen years old."

"Yeah, that might be true." I nod, throwing my hands down aggressively. "But _I'm_ not. _I'm_ no longer the person who spent entire weekends as your shopping buddy at the Port Angeles Mall. _I'm_ not the shoulder you cried on after you caught Tyler Crowley cheating on you with Lauren Mallory over spring break down at La Push Beach. _I_ didn't hold your hair back as you puked your guts out after Emmet's infamous ragger of '05. Don't you see how different I am?"

 _Don't you see how I'm only a shell of that person?_

"Bella, stop being so dramatic." She flourishes her hand, shaking her head while concurrently rolling her eyes. "You and I both know that that's exactly who you still are. Years may have made you wise and experience certainly has darkened your outlook, but you are still the Bella Swan who did all those things for me. You're still the Bella Swan who I need at my side and holding my bouquet up at the altar when I promise eternity to a man who doesn't even know the difference between Jimmy Choo's and Louis Vuitton's!"

I know that Alice's words shouldn't have any bearing on my response, that they shouldn't change anything. But hearing her like this…it reminds me of the reason she was formerly my best friend. For once, I acknowledge my preceding, and I can breathe. I reluctantly smile. In a bashful voice, I speak while attempting not to smile. It's hard. "Well, obviously I didn't know _that._ "

Alice bites her lip, her scrutiny meeting mine. The air between us instantly lightens as if we are now both recalling an inside joke. Her mouth begins turning upwards at the corners. She knows she has won. "Bella, I tried bringing him along with me to the florist to choose center pieces and he picked lilies!"

I have to physically hold down my hilarity. "They weren't white stargazers, were they?"

"Yes!" She closes her mouth and bob her head slowly. "I'm marrying someone who wanted the flower most commonly seen at funerals as the focal point of our reception!"

Together, we break into the undeniable fits of amusement we had both my trying to refute. It's the kind of laughter that echoes violently through your chest, splits your sides in two, and simply makes you feel _good_ afterwards. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, and I grab Alice's hands as something to hold onto. We continue laughing and it's the most natural thing in the world. I can't remember the last time I felt this free, this blissfully content with what is currently transpiring out of my control.

Laughing with Alice is different than laughing with Rosalie and Angela, in a way that I can't particularly define. It's not that I have to pretend with them, because I really do have a good time gossiping and discussing Angela's numerous dating escapades. It's that…being with Alice is familiar. There's nothing forced about being her friend. It's easy.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually, we are able to look at each other without falling back into convulsions of hysterics. I seize a tissue box and hand it to her, which she takes willingly. Our cheeks red and moist, we blot the happy tears away.

"Hey, you finally started using waterproof mascara!"

I look down at my tissue, soaked in spots with moisture but otherwise clean of any angry black smears. "Oh, yeah." _You never know when you're going to drive head first off of a bridge._

As if reading my mind, she tilts her head and gives me one of her understanding expressions. Her eyes lighten with the sympathy that used to follow me around everywhere that I went. "It's really good to see you."

"It's really good to see you too." And I don't even have to lie. I see her glance at the clock on the wall behind me and wince. "Do you have to go?"

"I'm technically on the clock as well. I was supposed to be at work an hour ago."

"Oh, jeez," I walk back around the counter so that I can be closer to her. "Well, then, go! How do you ever expect to be promoted to designer if you don't show up?"

In response, Alice throws her thin arms around me. I feel her breath on the back of my neck; she smells like coconuts. The touch of another person for any extended amount of time usually spikes my anxiety levels and leaves me stiff and uncomfortable, but being here in her arms…it's bearable. I close my eyes, and no longer know how old I am. This could be the summer before my junior year as she holds my trembling body on the floor of the bathroom. The only way I know the difference is because I'm not crying anymore.

She releases me and steps back. "You're going to be my maid of honor."

"I'm going to be you're maid of honor." I state, surprisingly calm.

She steps away from me. "By the way, I love your outfit." I see her eyes travel down me, assessing my clothing choices. "Maybe you aren't the same Bella Swan from high school, after all."

"Rose may not work for _Ralph Lauren_ , but she does know fashion. We went on your kind of shopping spree last year—we spent enough money to put a kid through a year of college."

Alice appraises me more. "I can't believe you traded in the jeans and chucks."

"I guess I needed a change."

She smiles sadly, again eyeing the time. She knows what I mean. She always knows. Walking towards the front door, she grabs hold of the handle and the bell chimes. "Bye, Bella," She's about to step out when she looks back at me one more time. "I'll call you."

I tilt my head to the side. "You don't have my number."

"Yes I do," She steps out, the door already closing behind her. "Charlie gave it to me. I only came in person so you wouldn't be able to hang up on me."

With that, the hurricane that is Alice Cullen whorls out of my store. Through the window I watch her small body retreat further and further down the street until she is nothing but a black speak in the distance. Her arm rises, and a taxi is there within seconds. Though I can't be sure, I think she turns towards me one last time to wave in farewell. She then slides into the vehicle with as much grace as a gazelle and disappears.

Even after she's gone, I still stand at the window staring, trying to get my head around what the hell just happened.

* * *

 **You know what to do…**


End file.
